by Robert Carr
The last paragraph was more specific. “As we were ready for print, we heard from a source that the police found a small package of crack cocaine in Mr. Gratch’s apartment. We called the police, but they had no further comment to make, refusing to either conform or deny it, although Detective Sergeant Dempsey agreed that crack-cocaine was becoming a problem in the city. We phoned Mr. Talashkin too, and asked him whether Mr. Gratch might have dealt in drugs. Mr. Talashkin had a good laugh.”
“We should go to the police, Art,” Audrey said.
He had another sip of wine before he answered. “We should. We will, but not now.”
“When, then?”
“Let me finish this, Audrey, get the first volume off my hands, and then we’ll do it. I promise. A few more weeks, at most a month.”
“It may be too late.”
“It’s not as if Lezzard is closing shop, is it? Besides, we don’t really know, do we, that Gratch’s death is connected with him. They found crack cocaine in Gratch’s apartment, after all.”
“Mr. Gratch didn’t look like a drug dealer to me. He seemed more like a desperate blackmailer. He discovers what he believes to be—and we do too—trafficking in confiscated Soviet art. An old man, with hardly any income, he’s not doing well. He thinks of a way out.”
Laukhin shrugged.
“I called the Jehovah’s Witnesses, Art. There is a Russian branch here, in Toronto, and I phoned them. I said someone approached me for a charitable donation, and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t swindled. They don’t have a Mr. Gratch. Never had a Gratch among their members.”
* * *
Later that night, holding Audrey in his arms, he felt her shiver. “Are you cold?”
“No. Yes. Maybe I’m coming down with something. I’m not feeling that well, Art. Let’s sleep. I’m tired.”
“Move in with me, Audrey.”
She sighed. “Let’s not talk about it now—let’s try to sleep.” After a while she added, “I can’t think about such things at night. You smell nice, darling. Very nice, in fact, for an old Russian.”
“Marry me, Audrey.”
“What? Why?”
“I smell nice.”
“That’s all?”
“I’ll write long poems about you.”
“Long poems I won’t understand.”
“I’ll translate them.”
“Does it ever work?”
“You’ll become immortal.”
Her fingers slid lightly down his cheek, and then onto his lips. “You’ve had too much wine.”
“I haven’t.”
“Let’s sleep. I’m getting up early tomorrow.”
“Again? Why?”
“I must let you work, remember. Martha will be gone by then. Promise me you won’t get up with me.”
“Not get up with you? That’s the best part—well, not the very best, but right up there …”
“It becomes, you know, a dragged-on thing. I’m often sappy in the morning. You have a lot of work, Art, and you’ve already lost several hours tonight.”
“When will I see you again? Tomorrow night?”
“If you’re done, only if you’re done. I’ll call you. Let’s sleep.”
She turned her back to him and fitted her buttocks against his crotch, her long legs zigzagged against his. Her neck smelled faintly of perfume and salt. He told himself to stay awake through the night. He had a premonition that he wouldn’t share a bed with Audrey that often and he wanted to savour every second of it. He remained awake for a long time, but it was a losing fight.
Thursday, 13 October, 1955
We berthed in Yelabuga this morning. Korotkova was keen to join us. Boris Leonidovich was hesitant about it at first, because he had already sent word that he’d arrive with only one other person. Two might be a problem, but in the end he agreed. Korotkova had been a great help to us. She’d been a good companion too, intelligent, generous, practical. How wrong first impressions can be. She’d wait in Yelabuga for two days for the boat’s return trip. Boris Leonidovich and I would take the train back to Moscow a day earlier, although, after his first glimpse of the town today, he muttered that we may want to stay another night before boarding the train. “We shouldn’t leave Marietta Alexeyevna by herself in this desolate place.”
Can I insist we leave as planned? Can I deny him a night in Marietta’s arms? Am I a bit jealous?
We were met at the pier by a teacher named Rozhanov. Mid forties, wearing a brown suit and a blue shirt without a tie. He was driving an old GAZ that might have seen the war—school property, he said—and it took a while to fit everybody and the luggage in. Luckily, Korotkova brought very little with her. Rozhanov drove us to the hotel—old and dusty—on the main street. Karl Marx Street. We dropped our luggage, and then Rozhanov took us to the Brodelshchikovs’ house, on Voroshilov Street. Everyone seemed preoccupied, and we drove in silence. The streets were empty. The GAZ emitted noxious fumes and made ominous sounds at each gear shift.
The Brodelshchikovs live in a small log house, the kind of house a child would draw, a flat rectangle with a gable roof and three windows. The courtyard is fairly large. An apple tree with sparse yellow leaves. Chickens. A black pig, leashed like a dog, watches our small cortege.
The door opens directly into the main room—living room, dining room, kitchen, all in one space. An impressively large stove. A pine table, relatively new, with four chairs that don’t match. A small samovar and glasses on the table. A wooden bench near the door. A radio on a stool in a corner, a decrepit armchair in another. Our hostess, Anastasia Ivanovna Brodelshchikova, is a tiny woman, withered by age and life. Backswept hair and round wire-frame glasses. Squinting eyes. Thin lips. A blouse that may have once belonged to a much larger woman. A long skirt with large front buttons. Thick brown socks. She moves with some difficulty. Her lean husband towers over her.
It seemed that Rozhanov had already explained to the Brodelshchikovs who we were. After exchanging a few words with them he disappeared, because he had classes to teach. He was courteous and efficient, but edgy and not overly pleased to see us. Rozhanov was reserved for a lover of literature and an admirer of Pasternak’s poetry, which Boris Leonidovich told me he was when I asked. Where did he find this willing and discreet guide to open the Brodelshchikovs’ door for us?
We sat at the table. Brodelshchikova talked about Tsvetayeva without being prodded, as if she had said it all before, several times. She, Tsvetayeva, never did anything but smoke and shout at her son. They often fought in some language of their own, a foreigner’s language. She never swept her room, never cooked. She had a few provisions—some dried beans and somebody sent her a small bag of flour. She rarely talked to her or to her husband. Anybody else would have sat down, had tea, something to eat, would have talked - if only to make time pass faster. But no, not the White émigré woman, not her. It was hard, unpleasant for the Brodelshchikovs. Tsvetayeva was worried, constantly worried. Frightened. But she wouldn’t sit down to have a drink or two and forget her troubles for a few hours. She never drank, never laughed. A few laughs would have chased away many griefs, but she never even smiled. Brodelshchikova paused for a while watching us, and her husband said something, and, nodding, she went on. Her husband had caught a huge fish, a pike. They couldn’t finish it themselves, it was too big. Brodelshchikova cooked it and invited the newcomers to share it. It was a long evening. Brodelshchikova did all the talking, so much that her mouth hurt. Her husband never talked much unless he had had several drinks, and then he’d rather sing. But she, the White émigré woman, barely said anything all evening. She thanked them, and then she said that she was very tired. The boy talked more than his mother did.
Brodelshchikova’s voice was neutral, disinterested. Clearly, she was repeating a story she told many times.
“No, it wasn’t good for us,” she went on. “The rent, well, let’s not talk about it, and, on top of it, they didn’t have ration cards. I don’t know why. Frankly, we d
idn’t want them here, with us. I felt sorry for her afterward—not before, mind you, but afterward. Of course I did, who wouldn’t?”
There was nothing surprising in what she said. Even the fact that she referred to Tsvetayeva a couple of times as “the White émigré woman” didn’t surprise me. The power of official labels. For Tsvetayeva, they must have been just one more couple that didn’t want anything to do with her. She must have been used to it by the time she got to Yelabuga.
“I didn’t want to see you,” Brodelshchikova said looking at Boris Leonidovich. These words came unexpectedly, and we, the visistors, looked startled at each other. She went on. “What for? What’s in it for us? There have been a few others like you who have come here asking about her, and it’s been hard to get rid of them.”
“We are grateful,” Boris Leonidovich said.
“It’s my husband. He wants me to tell you …”
We looked at him. Tall and bent, thinning white hair and moustache. A rumpled collared shirt under a rumpled suit. He’d put his suit on for this visit, a suit that had not been pressed in a while.
“Yes, he’s pushing me to tell you what happened. He’s a fool, an old fool. I keep telling him I couldn’t see anything, but he won’t let the matter go. I keep telling him it would be only trouble for us. He says we’re not getting younger and we’ll soon die. Ah, men are stubborn. He says we know who you are. He says it’s now or never, that I must talk now.”
I looked, puzzled, at Boris Leonidovich, and he at me.
Pointing a finger at Boris Leonidovich, Brodelshchikova went on. “Rozhanov told us you are a poet, like her. He said you are a good man, Tsvetayeva’s best friend. Were you her best friend?”
“I was a friend of hers, of course,” Boris Leonidovich said.
“I’m going to tell you something, something I haven’t told anybody.”
Both Boris Leonidovich and I nodded encouragingly, but she had eyes only for him.
The husband suddenly spoke. “The teacher,” and he pointed to the door through which Rozhanov left, “also said that her daughter is alive and that you are in touch with her.” He asked, without looking at Korotkova, “Who’s she? Is she the daughter?”
Boris Leonidovich introduced Korotkova. Reintroduced her, because he had already mentioned her name to them. “A friend. A friend of ours, a friend of poetry as well. And an admirer of Tsvetayeva.” He looked embarrassed at me, sheepish, and shrugged and rolled his eyes, as if to say, “I know it’s pompous, but I don’t know how else to describe her.”
Brodelshchikova was not happy. “I thought there would be just two of you. Rozhanov said that there would be two of you, two men, older men.”
I laughed, trying to lighten the mood, “Well now, easy with ‘old,’ please. Not that old. Mature, ripe, full-grown, yes.”
The couple looked at each other, and he shook his head.
“We don’t want her here,” Brodelschikova said curtly.
Boris Leonidovich was surprised and tried to rise to her defence, saying, “Look, we may want to—”
Korotkova smiled and said, “I’ll go for a walk in the town. Will an hour be enough? I don’t mind, Boris Leonidovich, I really don’t mind. I understand.”
She walked out, and I was grateful to Korotkova for quickly settling the matter.
Brodelshchikova was still unhappy. “I don’t know if I remember. I don’t know what’s in it for us. My husband, he’s just pushing me. It’s been fourteen years already. And things like this, one is better off forgetting. But he won’t let me. What does he know? He didn’t go through it—I did. It’s hell to go through it again. He’s not allowing me to forget. And we, I don’t know what’s in it for us. What do we get in return? Only trouble, for sure. I really don’t know.”
I had a sudden idea. “Where is she buried?”
She hesitated, uncertain. “The poetess?”
“Yes.”
“In the town graveyard.”
The husband said, “An unmarked grave.”
I took all the money I had in my pocket, and I carried a fair amount, for emergencies and Boris Leonidovich’s whims, and placed the treasure on the table. “We’d like to put a sign there, a stone or a cross, a monument of some sort, something to remind people of her.”
Boris Leonidovich seemed about to say something, but no words came out.
The husband said, “We don’t know where she was buried. I told you, it’s an unmarked grave.”
Brodelshchikova jumped in, “Oh, we’ll find out. I think I remember where. And I know other people who do too.”
I said, quickly, “Since we’re so far away, we’ll leave the money with you. We trust you’ll make sure it’s done. We’ll send more money later, of course.”
In the silence that followed Boris Leonidovich said, “We’ve brought you something, Anastasia Ivanovna. Small tokens, for putting up with us.”
I took out, from a small bag I brought along from the hotel, a box of fine chocolates, a bottle of expensive Georgian brandy, a collection of Boris Leonidovich’s poetry inscribed by the author “To the last friends of Marina Ivanovna Tsvetayeva,” and a copy of my Undertakers’ Feast, which I had signed.
Brodelshchikova pushed the money aside to make space for our offerings then poured us some tea. It was weak and had the faint scent of apples. She sipped from her glass and looked at her husband who prompted her with a gesture, and she began her story.
“That Sunday everybody went out of the town. Volunteer work. They were building a road for airplanes, you know what I mean, and we were all told to go out there and help. I went with Georgy, her son. Everybody who turned up would be given a loaf of bread. My husband, well, my husband had gone fishing early in the morning, so I went for both of us. She, Tsvetayeva, was the only one left at home. It was a scorching day and it was hard work. I’m not a big or a strong woman, as you can see, and I began to feel faint. So I left after a couple of hours.”
Brodelshchikova spoke softly, and it was not easy to follow her. She didn’t tell anybody she was leaving, she just took off, thinking she’d return later, because she still wanted her loaf of bread. She walked home slowly, feeling rotten, and entered the yard from the back lane. Hot and exhausted, she had only one thought in her mind: to get to the cellar and sleep. She sometimes slept there in the summer, when the heat became unbearable. Her husband had built a pine shelf in the cellar, to the left of the ladder. The shelf was small, a few planks, too narrow and short for her husband, but fine for her, and all she could think of as she walked home was lying down on the old coat she kept there and catching her breath. She had slept there the previous day too, on Saturday at noon, because it had been a sweltering day and she could hardly breathe.
She looked at her husband, who nodded encouragingly at her. He had a kind wrinkled face. Although he remained quiet, he seemed to have some control over her.
There was a door to the cellar from the yard. In the summer, you couldn’t see it because of a nearby bush planted by her husband years ago. She didn’t know what got into him, for where could one run, if that was what made him do it? She went down into the cellar and lay down and slowly recovered some strength. Now and then she could hear Tsvetayeva moving above her, faintly most of the time, but louder if she stepped near the trapdoor even though the only rug in the house was over it.
She didn’t know at first who they were and what they were after. Quite confused, she didn’t even know where she was. She must have fallen asleep in the cool cellar, and their voices and heavy steps above her head woke her up. At first she thought they were trying to have their way with her, with Tsvetayeva. Fools, she thought. Skinny as a branch, lifeless, ashen-faced, and not young anymore. Tsvetayeva was protesting, no, no, no. Don’t force me, please don’t do it—or don’t make me do it. She couldn’t hear that well, and that’s why she thought they were going to rape her. But then she understood that was not what was happening above her.
Brodelshchikova halted her story and
drank some tea. It took a while, because she was swallowing with difficulty. Her face was white.
She realized that they were the secret police—not immediately, but after some time—from the way there were talking to Tsvetayeva, threatening, yelling, but also laughing. Sure of themselves, not in a hurry. There were three of them, two of them older, in their fifties, one quite young. She saw them later, that’s how she knew what they looked like. The oldest one, who seemed to be in charge, had a thick voice and might have been the only one who felt sorry for Tsvetayeva. He spoke to her for a long time. He said it would be better for everybody, and especially for her children. He said they had talked to her son, who’d told him he thought he’d be better off if she were somewhere else and he could live as he wanted to live. He felt chained to her, condemned to be forever associated with her and her name. She should think about her daughter as well, not just her son. Her daughter’s sentence would be lighter if she disappeared. Because, in due time, they’d arrest her and interrogate her, and she’d end up incriminating her daughter. She, Tsvetayeva must have said something, because he said to her, “Believe me, you would. Your husband did.” He said something else about her husband, but she, Brodelshchikova, couldn’t hear or couldn’t remember what he said.
I was having a rough time, listening to Brodelshchikova’s story. Boris Leonidovich’s was biting his lower lip, his head lowered. He was holding his right hand over his chest, in a protective or comforting way.
Tsvetayeva said something that Brodelschikova again couldn’t hear. The oldest man, the one in charge, went on, impatiently, with an edge in his voice. He repeated that she, Tsvetayeva, would end up telling them all they wanted to know about her daughter. Nobody held out, nobody. He told her it was a simple choice: do this for her children or be arrested and endure the worst things she could imagine, and end up the same way, dead. The only difference was that her death would be long and painful, and her children would be much worse off. If she let them help her …